


In the Eye of the Beholder

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Eyes, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22309048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: “Your eyes are beautiful.” He says it again, knowing that Geralt still won’t believe him—perhaps he never will. But that’s okay, because he’s already committed to spending the rest of his days extolling the virtues of Geralt of Rivia to the world… extolling Geralt’s virtues to Geralt , however, sounds infinitely more challenging and rewarding.AKAJaskierreallylikes his Witcher's eyes.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 24
Kudos: 1022
Collections: Best Geralt, GERALT AND JASKIER ARE FUCKING GAY





	In the Eye of the Beholder

Witchers were abominations… monstrous  _ freaks _ of nature… creatures scarcely better than the monsters that they were contracted to kill… The list went on. The insults grew increasingly less creative. Jaskier had never paid them much mind, knowing that men were prone to blather on about  _ anything _ if they felt someone were inclined to listen —and once the mead started flowing, well… it didn’t really seem to matter if there was anyone willing to listen or not. 

It was only after he’d begun traveling with Geralt that he actually began to  _ listen _ .

Although the Witcher had reminded him on multiple occasions that he  _ wasn’t _ human… Jaskier couldn’t help but reflect on all the ways that that statement  _ wasn’t _ true. Sure, he had a few fancy-schmancy mutations that allowed him to heal his injuries with preternatural speed and survive a Kikimora attempting to drown him in filthy bog water… and the combat magic was a nice touch. And while Jaskier  _ appreciated _ all of those little quirks when the monster of the week was attempting to serve him up for breakfast… When you cut Geralt, he bled. When you hit him (...hard enough), he bruised. When you pissed him off, he kindly let you know. Usually with a sucker punch to the gut. And when you hurt him, those gorgeous, molten amber eyes looked so damn  _ sad _ as he turned the other cheek. And fuck if, as far as Jaskier was concerned, that didn’t make him more human than a number of mortal men he’d had the ‘pleasure’ of acquainting himself with over the years…

Speaking of eyes… This was definitely…  _ new _ .

Contrary to what Geralt might think, Jaskier did have a  _ fairly _ strong self-preservation instinct. It had just taken almost-dying an embarrassing number of times for it to finally kick into high-gear. So when he finds himself  _ underneath _ Geralt in the middle of a cemetery, a bloody necrophage corpse just…  _ chilling out _ on the Witcher’s back, his first thought is how he really needs to take the Witcher up on his offer of basic self-defense lessons because  _ this _ would be a whole hell of a lot hotter if there wasn’t a  _ corpse _ on Geralt’s  _ back _ . A corpse that, about thirty seconds earlier, had come barrelling toward him with every intent of turning him into an after-dinner snack. His second thought is that Geralt is refusing to look at him… and if he’s truly that angry, he’d much rather endure the inevitable lecture here and now… though, it  _ would _ be nice if he would… shuck the corpse. 

He’s making disturbing levels of eye-contact with the necrophage corpse as he starts, “So, uh—,”

“Don’t.” Geralt’s voice is gruff, and  _ fuck _ , he wishes he could see his face behind that curtain of silver-white hair. “Just… Are you hurt?”

“There seems to be a particularly large rock digging into the small of my back…” the bard muses, attempting to lighten the mood and failing miserably. “I’m  _ fine _ , Geralt. Drenched in decidedly more blood than I would prefer, and not entirely certain that I won’t wretch if I have to keep staring at that thing… but I am  _ fine _ .”

“Hmm,” Jaskier thinks that he sounds relieved, but it can be difficult to pick up on the minute shifts in the Witcher’s tone of voice—after awhile, everything starts to sound like sarcasm. He wishes that he could see his face, but when he reaches to brush drenched silver-white locks from Geralt’s face, the Witcher catches his wrist in a grip that’s just a  _ hair _ too tight to be comfortable. “I said  _ no _ .”

Jaskier winces, “Geralt, that… that actually kind of hurts.” There’s an awkward pause in which the Witcher’s grip remains firm, “Um… Geralt? You’re  _ hurting _ me.” Geralt makes a small, wounded noise and releases Jaskier’s wrist as if it had burned him. 

“S-Sorry.” He makes to stand, and the necrophage rolls off of his back and out of Jaskier’s immediate line of sight—thank the gods. 

“Geralt… what’s going on?” Jaskier stumbles to his feet with much less grace, hurrying to catch up with Geralt as the Witcher ambles back toward the entrance of the cemetery. “Are  _ you _ hurt? I didn’t see the creature strike you, but fuck, if I find out that the only thing holding your innards in is that godsdamned armor, or something equally horrific—,” Well, he doesn’t actually know  _ what _ he’ll do… but it won’t be pretty.

He sees Geralt’s shoulders hitch in what might have been a laugh… but could also have been a sob. “Nothing so dramatic, I assure you.” He’s still walking away from him, and fuck, that’s annoying. He should  _ at least _ have the decency to  _ face _ him whilst avoiding his questions!

“Then what is it that you’re trying so damn hard to hide from me?”

The Witcher  _ snarls _ , large, calloused hands curling into fists at his sides. He whirls around so fast that Jaskier runs head-long into his chest and doesn’t even bother trying to stop him from collapsing flat on his ass. The bard winces, positive that he landed atop a rock—or twelve—and ready to call Geralt out for his little temper tantrum, when he sees them. Geralt’s eyes. They were… admittedly, a bit alarming at first glance, if only because the inky black sclera is decidedly different from the molten amber that he’s become accustomed to. But as he continues to stare, noting the way that the Witcher’s naturally pallid skin had grown so pale as to be almost translucent, the greenish-blue of his veins the only bits of  _ color _ visible on his face, aside from the splotches of necrophage blood here and there, he realizes with a start that he thinks that Geralt’s eyes… open, closed, amber, black, crusted shut with monster blood, what have you… were beautiful.

“Are you quite—,”

“Your eyes. They’re… beautiful.” Geralt blinks, mouth open around a half-formed word, before his features twist in irritation. Jaskier ignores this and continues to blather, “I’d heard stories, but… I don’t know, I suppose I assumed that they’d look more…  _ demonic _ .” Geralt tries and fails to conceal his flinch at Jaskier’s specific choice of words, “But you’re eyes are just…”

“Perfectly suited to a monster. Yes, I know.” He almost wishes that Jaskier wouldn’t try so damn hard to lie to him. Though he’s yet to understand  _ why _ , it’s clear the bloody idiot isn’t  _ afraid _ of him—but he has two working eyes and can see as well as any other that Geralt is a monster. No amount of pleasant, flowery  _ lies _ would change that fact. “You needn’t try so hard to lie to me.”

“I was  _ going _ to say like two finely cut black diamonds.” Jaskier corrects, and then, a bit of irritation bleeding into his tone, “When have I ever called you a monster? Or even implied it?”

Geralt chooses not to respond, instead biting back with a gruff, “They’re not beautiful.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, “Then I suppose you would also take umbrage with my claiming that you’re pretty.”

A long stretch of silence follows, before Geralt asks, “Are you sure that that rock was lodged in the small of your back and not the back of your  _ head _ ?” He offers the bard his hand, and helps him to his feet. Jaskier lets out a small yip of pain—turns out that second fall hit a bit harder than he’d thought—as he gets his feet underneath him. 

“...Is it wrong that I kind of want to punch anyone that’s ever hurt you?” 

The Witcher offers him a cursory once over, before shrugging, “You’d do more damage to your hand.”

Jaskier splutters, “Y-You don’t have to sound so  _ sure _ about that!” Heat rises in his cheeks as he offers Geralt an indignant glare, “L-Look, I’m just… I’m just trying to say that I  _ like _ you, alright? And I’m not overly fond of the idea of you getting hurt.”

“It’s my job to get hurt.” 

And Jaskier’s heart actually  _ shatters  _ because  _ no _ , that’s  _ not _ the Witcher’s job and nobody should  _ ever _ have to feel like it is. But that’s a fight for another day, and so instead of saying what he  _ wants _ to… he bites his lip and murmurs, “Not by humans, it’s not.”

He’s been on enough hunts with Geralt to know that this world is brimming with creatures of nightmare. The  _ real _ monsters, however, are the ones with loose tongues and too much coin, who’d just as soon see a Witcher stoned as they would hire his services to divest themselves of whatever creature deigned to intrude upon their perfect lives that week. He thinks back to when he first started  _ listening _ to the idiotic drivel that spilled forth from their filthy mouths. His anger had almost seemed to…  _ amuse _ Geralt. Like this was all one terrifically morbid joke and Jaskier just wasn’t privy to the punchline. It’d taken him an embarrassingly long while to realize that Geralt limited his interactions with humans, feigned ignorance in the face of their jeers, let them spit on him and cut him and fucking  _ stone _ him, because he’d come to believe that he deserved it to be hurt and isolated and  _ forgotten _ .

It wasn’t about the public’s perception of Geralt, it was Geralt’s perception of  _ himself _ . A perception skewed by too many lifetimes spent being referred to as a monster… an abomination… a  _ demon _ …

“Your eyes  _ are _ beautiful.” He says it again, knowing that Geralt still won’t believe him—perhaps he never will. But that’s okay, because he’s already committed to spending the rest of his days extolling the virtues of Geralt of Rivia to the world… extolling Geralt’s virtues to  _ Geralt _ , however, sounds infinitely more challenging and rewarding. 

A sigh, “You definitely have a concussion.” He presses his lips to Jaskier’s temple, and the bard can’t help the way he melts into Geralt’s side… only to be reminded that they’re  _ both _ drenched in necrophage guts. How romantic.

“Mmph… does that mean you’ll let me ride with you back to the inn?” Somewhere along the line, his eyes had reverted back to their familiar amber hue… Jaskier reaches up to stroke the soft skin beside his left eye with the pad of his thumb, and he startles a little when the Witcher seizes his bruised wrist with an uncharacteristic gentleness and brings it to his lips for a soft kiss.

“Not on your life.”


End file.
